


The shortest distance between two points

by Trojie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Bad Decisions, Bloodplay, Consent Issues, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Kink Negotiation, Knifeplay, M/M, Misunderstandings, Not Safe Sane and Consensual, Season/Series 05, Sibling Incest, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-14
Updated: 2013-09-14
Packaged: 2017-12-26 12:53:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/966156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel watches over the Winchesters, which means he hears a lot of things he probably shouldn't, sees a lot of things he wishes he didn't, wants a lot of things he was never even meant to know about. Dean and Sam are failing at trying to fight both Heaven and Hell simultaneously, and they're taking it out on each other, and Castiel doesn't know how to help them except to get between them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The shortest distance between two points

**Author's Note:**

> FURTHER WARNING: The kink negotiation is extremely poor (to the point of non-existent in places).
> 
> Fill for my hurt_comfort bingo card's wildcard square - prompt 'atonement'. 
> 
> Huge thanks to Kissyn for shepherding this fic into being and Cosmonaught for cheerleading it home <3 you ladies are fabulous.

The frequency at which angels speak is crowded. There are many angels, although fewer than there used to be, and there's much to be spoken of. Communication, communion, revelation; knowledge passing between brothers and sisters for the common good. 

It's exhausting to return to when you've been unused to it for so long. 

At the present time, Castiel, out of necessity (where previously he was under orders), listens more often to his charges, the Winchesters. They speak barely at all, except in terms of the physical vibration of muscles to produce waveforms, audible only to those in immediate proximity. Castiel spends many hours in the space created by their silence, waiting for them to call him. Mostly it's Dean that does so, and only when he's in what he considers to be the direst need.

When they do call for him, they're sullen and taciturn; soldierly in a way Castiel can feel kinship with and yet undisciplined in a way he's only starting to understand. He finds himself lingering in their presence even after their need has passed, and sometimes one or both of them will smile at him, and it's as if he's part of a garrison once more, finding camaraderie in amongst duty. 

They only consciously call him out of need, true. But there are times when humans commune with the Divine even if they don't realise they're doing so, and sometimes both Dean and Sam will cry some kind of ecstasy wormed through with guilt into Castiel's waiting consciousness, telegraphing knotted-up emotion with no message. It isn't prayer or summoning. The first time, when Castiel heard Dean's voice wretched with sweetness and pain, Sam's twining with it so desperately, he fled to be at their sides, to save them from the peril they were facing. 

He was prepared for a battle. He was not prepared for darkness, for Dean's naked thighs streaked with the light from the motel's neon sign eking through the rain-streaked window in white and blue and dull cherry red, curving around Sam's hips. For a second, he thought they were fighting - that Sam, his body caged around Dean's against the wall, was holding Dean there against his will, that Dean's hoarse, blasphemous cries were angry. 

And then he looked harder and _saw_. Saw that Dean was goading and that Sam was holding back, more strain in his own sinews than in Dean's leveraged-upon bones. This peril Castiel can't save them from, and he knows they wouldn't want him to even try. He's not innocent - he knows what they're doing.

He tries to give them their privacy. He can't refrain from listening, in case they have genuine need of him, but he can turn away from the sight. It's a sin they're committing, but they've committed so many others that were sanctioned by Castiel's superiors, why should this be different? In any case, the judgements of Heaven that are being handed down in these last days are false in Castiel's eyes, and he's no longer an agent of the Host. 

He has to make his own moral choice here.

Castiel's decision is to look the other way when they make their carnal prayers. If he overhears their lovemaking, so be it. He's keeping watch, merely the ever-vigilant angel at their shoulder. Weighing everything; the danger of leaving them unguarded, their privacy, the nature of their … activities - Castiel is sure he's making the right choice.

***

Neither Heaven nor Hell gives them any respite from being hunted. Being prey for once is alien to these men; they're not used to more than a perfunctory attempt at covering their tracks, and all this stealth chafes them. Castiel has to follow them, meet them at odd places and random times. He sees them late at night, when Sam's dreams are tortuous and keep him awake, and early in the morning, when Dean strips his guns and watches Sam through his last few minutes of hard-won sleep like a man guarding a treasure. 

He takes stock of them in the short lengths of time he has to do so, and he doesn't like his observations. They're taking damage, Castiel's charges. There are shadows under Sam's eyes. There are bruises on Dean's body. It's almost as if they've decided to rob Michael and Lucifer of their vessels by destroying them, from the inside out.

It won't work. Armageddon is only one conflict. Perhaps they're winning the battle over their consent - perhaps their strength will gain them the victory on that front. 

But they're losing so many other wars.

***

'Cas!' It's Dean's voice, wild and shaking with pain and shot through with a triumph that burns. 'Cas - fuck - _Castiel_!'

It's that moment of realisation all over again, when Castiel flies to Dean's side. Sam is slamming his naked brother face-first up against the motel room's wall, again and again, one hand bracing them both against the panelling and the other wrapped around Dean's hip, keeping him in place high on his toes as Sam drives into him. 'Say it again,' he's growling into Dean's ear. 'Fucking say it again, say it like you mean it.'

'Fuck you, Sammy -' Dean gasps, laughing through the tears in his screwed-closed eyes. 'You bitch, you fucking sadist -'

'Shut up,' Sam grinds out through his teeth, and Castiel is about to leave, is in the process of turning, when Sam says, 'Call Cas again, Dean. You think he can hear you? You think he's sitting somewhere, listening to you getting your meat suit all dirtied up? What do you think he thinks of you right now?'

Castiel freezes, and cannot stop his gaze from returning to the Winchester brothers.

Dean breathes harshly through his nose and mouth, dragging the air into himself like it's a physical effort, and even through the velvet of the darkness Castiel can see how Sam is thrusting in and up and forward in a deliberate way, aiming, holding Dean steady just so - but his face is buried in the sweat of Dean's corded neck and straining shoulders where Castiel cannot see the emotion that drives him. He's entering Dean with great force now, and Castiel, attuned to Dean and at such close proximity, can feel the heat that blooms under his skin where Sam touches him and the reckless joy that chases it.

That susurrus of agony and deep pleasure that Castiel normally hears only in Dean's prayers is around him like a veil now, wrapping him as Sam wraps himself around Dean, cradling him between his body and the wall. 

'Say his name, Dean,' Sam says, and Dean's eyes roll up in his head. 'Say it!'

'Castiel!' Dean's climax strikes like the blow of a hammer - Castiel sees him lock up and then break, sees the flutter of his eyelids and the catch of his throat against some captive word. He goes limp after, the bonelessness of orgasm seeing him pliant in Sam's arms, and as Dean folds up into his brother's embrace, something changes in Sam's method. He pulls back from the wall, tips Dean's head to rest against his shoulder. He isn't restraining Dean now - he's holding him.

Now that Dean is past caring, Sam is _gentle_. His face is a mask of something Castiel cannot read as he seeks his own release, and Castiel is again preparing to leave - _to flee_ \- when Sam looks at him, straight in the eyes. Sam presses a kiss softly into Dean's hairline and bites his own lip as he comes, cradling Dean to his chest, and he stares unblinking at Castiel the whole time. 

Castiel is gone before Dean opens his eyes. 

***

Castiel receives no prayer or communion, deliberate or not, from the Winchesters for seven days. But he won't pry. He waits, instead, and listens to the angels on their higher frequency, and considers. He fidgets, which is a new manifestation of his vessel's physicality over his own will. The buttons on the sleeves of his coat, which a year ago were functional slivers of molded plastic, are now impossible to leave alone. And his leg jiggles. 

'Castiel?'

Sam's voice is a whisper in Castiel's awareness. 

'Cas, I need your help.'

He's hunched over, sitting on the end of a bed that has plainly never been slept in, when Castiel finds him. Dean's nowhere to be seen, and the sun's setting. This is atypical, and Castiel finds it unsettling. Dean should be here. Despite knowing for a certainty that if anyone's capable of taking care of themselves, it's Dean, Castiel doesn't like the idea that he's alone.

'He's out,' says Sam, without turning around. 'Gone to pick up some burgers, I think, though he'll probably stop for a drink or two as well.'

'He shouldn't drive while intoxicated,' Castiel points out reflexively. 

Sam snorts. 'Number of headwounds he's had, he pretty much always drives like he's intoxicated. Anyway, pretty sure he wouldn't risk the Impala. Don't sweat it, Cas.'

'What did you call me here for?' Castiel asks, unsure of what this conversation is in aid of. Sam still hasn't turned around, and that makes it hard for Castiel to judge what he should do here. Dean would probably sit next to his brother and ask if he were suffering in some way, or more likely, offer him a beverage or possibly some minor, casual physical violence of the kind that appears to be a placeholder for verbal communication between siblings. But Castiel isn't Sam's brother. 'Is there a problem?'

Sam's shoulders tighten. 'I guess you could say that,' he says. 'It's Dean, Cas. Dean and me.' Before Castiel can ask yet again for further clarification, Sam says, 'I know you know what we do.'

Possibly it speaks to just how far Castiel has slipped, that he understands this nonspecific reference. It's a code that requires contextual awareness - a code that he's only now beginning to grasp. Castiel does know what they do in the dark with each other, so angrily and hungrily, but he does not know why. He has the observation but not the understanding.

Perhaps Sam has called him here, when Dean's away, to ask Castiel not to watch them again. Perhaps he'll ask Castiel not to even listen, although Castiel doesn't know if he can do that; not with the enemy so close about them. But, 'I'm sorry to have invaded your privacy,' he says, and it's the truth. 

Sam shrugs, the flat planes of his shoulderblades shuffling under his shirt. 'Well, it's not like you'd notice a sock on the doorknob, or whatever. That's not what I called about, anyway.'

Castiel doesn't have the context to decipher why Sam might be putting hosiery on the doorhandle, but it doesn't seem to be of great significance. 'You asked for my help,' Castiel says, because that seems more appropriate. 'Why?'

With humans, you always have to ask for their confessions; they won't volunteer them freely. Sam reeks of guilt and is forcing Castiel to tease his words from him like lambswool from thorns. Something's _wrong_ here, and the absence of Dean is somehow significant. Castiel itches to heal and doesn't know how. He needs more information. 

'Because it's not safe, what we do,' says Sam. He swivels, to finally look Castiel in the eye. 'The way we - crap, this is hard to talk about.'

He's blushing. Castiel takes pity on him. 'The way you have sexual congress,' he says, as calmly as he can. 'You think it's unsafe. And you think I can help you with this?' He can't help the note of incredulity that creeps into his voice. This isn't a subject he has experience with. Even if he rifles through Jimmy's memory of his life before Castiel came to him, there's nothing that equates. 

How can he help Sam and Dean when he's so ignorant?

'I'm hoping so,' says Sam, shrugging, straightening up a little. The way he moves on the bed makes the blankets bunch under him. His fingers find the folds and worry at them much the same way Castiel finds himself tugging at buttons - displacement activity. 'I figure, you watch us anyway, don't you? I've seen you a couple times. So, you keep watching, and if it looks like I'm going to hurt him -'

'But you do hurt him,' Castiel points out, not waiting for him to finish. He wonders how Sam hasn't already seen this. 'You're rough with him to the point of causing him pain.' He cocks his head, trying to read the expressions crossing Sam's face. 

'I know that, Cas,' Sam says, deflating. 'I - God, I know, okay?'

'I believe Dean drives you to it,' Castiel adds, because that's also true, from his observations, and it ought to count for something. 'I'm sure he wouldn't blame you.' And I don't blame you either, he doesn't add. 

It's odd to think something without saying it.

Sam's jaw tightens as if he's trying very hard to retain his calm demeanour. 'That - that isn't the point,' he says. 'He's not exactly a good judge of his own … anything, at the moment.'

Perhaps you have more in common than you know, Castiel would like to say, but again that doesn't seem as if it would be productive. Instead, he asks, 'Have you tried being gentler?'

'I feel like I've tried everything,' Sam says helplessly. 'I do my best, but - he knows every freaking trick in the book to make me snap. Even if I tie him up he rubs himself raw on the ropes. He _wants_ me to hurt him, Cas, I swear.'

'And what do you want me to do about it?' There doesn't seem to be much that even an angel can do, except to keep them apart, and everything in Castiel tells him that parting them now, when the fate of the world hangs on their brotherhood, is the wrong thing to do. 

'Just watch,' says Sam. 'Keep watch for me. Stop me if I look like I'm not stopping on my own, or whatever. Please, Cas, I just … I need a safety-net here.'

'I don't understand. You've done this with lovers before. You and the demon -' 

Castiel regrets saying it immediately, because it's obvious that it hurts Sam to be reminded. But it's the obvious comparison to draw, and besides, maybe that hurt will sharpen Sam's resolve not to take his brother down the same path. 

'She - Ruby could take it,' Sam says, not meeting Castiel's eyes. 

'You're afraid that Dean can't.'

'I've never had to stop myself before,' Sam says quietly. 'And now I don't - I don't trust myself. Not with him. Not when he's begging me, Cas. Please.' 

Castiel doesn't know how to do what Sam wants, but Dean's begged him for things before, and he knows how impossible it is to deny him. He can sympathise. 'I'll try,' he promises, despite his misgivings, and that seems to soothe Sam's fear. 

He swallows hard and nods. 'Thanks, Cas,' he says. 'I owe you one.'

'First let's see if this works,' Castiel says. There's a gnawing in his belly, an unfamiliar sensation. 'I can't promise that I can help.'

All sense says that they should just stop, that the risk is too great. But this war's taking so much else from them, driving them so hard, and they've already pared themselves down to nothing but their transport and their weapons and the shirts on their backs. 

They've got nothing else but each other. And Castiel does already watch over them. It wouldn't be that difficult to just increase his vigilance. 

Castiel doesn't like it, but he doesn't have a reason to refuse.

***

The longer Castiel spends within this vessel, the more it imposes its needs upon him, in the flat way of biological imperative. It wants time without stimulus or action in which to metabolise organic chemicals, so Castiel finds a house left empty and gives himself six hours lying flat.

The ceiling's painted blue. There are stars stuck to it, and the adhesive is failing. One of them dangles by almost a single point. Castiel watches dust float in the slow movement of the air, and waits for the lactic acid and the other products of human activity to dissipate.

When he next blinks, the sun is no longer slanting in through the window, and there has been some loss of time, and somewhere in the back of his mind is the humming awareness of Dean, lit up. No anger, no pain, no message - just awareness. Sam may be the psychic of the family, unnaturally augmented though his powers were, but Dean echoes, to Castiel. Wheresoever Dean goes, Castiel will know him and be able to find him.

And so, feeling odd about it despite Sam's request, Castiel's waiting in the parking lot of a motel when the Impala sweeps into it. Unseen, he follows the Winchesters to the room they have hired. It wouldn't do to follow them inside - it is only a small space and even if it were the size of a stadium it wouldn't matter, they would still take up all of it with papers and weapons and their constant unflagging awareness of each other, and it would be impossible to remain undetected.

So instead he stays outside with the hazy-hot, rose-tinted air, and the gaps between the curtains and over the salt lines will hopefully afford him enough of a view to make tactical judgements. 

Sam's saying something to Dean, gesturing to persuade. Dean shrugs and turns away and turns back to laugh, to roll his eyes, and Sam's growing frustration with him shows in the slant of his long back, the way he leans forward, the way he shoves his hair back out of his face and clasps the back of his neck to avoid lashing out. Dean's eyes never truly leave Sam, Castiel notices, and he's slowly, slowly inching himself closer into Sam's reach, even when he appears to be trying to ignore Sam or change the subject, he's somehow always within that long arm-span. 

Dean licks his lips and says something short, Castiel can't catch what from the wry motion of his mouth and jaw, although in trying to figure it out he notices that there's a dark, wispy smear of blood curving from Dean's nape round the curve of his neck and down over his collarbone, disappearing beneath his shirt. 

Whatever it is that Dean said, Sam doesn't like it. He bites off a curse, clenches his hands into fists where they hang by his sides. Castiel can tell he wants to shake Dean for his words. Dean can see it too, clearly, and he steps into the shadow of Sam's height, looks him in the eye. It's a brotherly sort of a taunt; no malice behind it as far as Castiel can see, just itching desire for a response. Dean puts up a hand and pushes Sam in the sternum lightly, smirks into his face, and then goes to turn. 

Sam grabs him by the arm before he has completed a full about-face. Castiel can see Dean in profile, in that moment, and his soft mouth is parted on a suddenly-indrawn breath, his pupils are wide and dark, and there is the finest of tremors in his body as he balances on the moment of being caught by Sam, before he turns. He brings his free fist up, angling for a blow but having to use his forearm to block Sam instead. Castiel could believe that Dean was struggling for his liberty except for the way he telegraphs his moves so openly, the way he never does when he fights for his life, and except for the upcurve of his smile. Every move he makes pushes Sam into grabbing for him harder and harder, until he is well and truly caught. 

They're both breathing fast by the time Dean stills in Sam's hold, and perhaps in sympathy Castiel's breath comes short as well, just from watching them together.

Sam has Dean's head tipped back, long fingers carded through and pulling tight in the short hair at the back of Dean's skull, and Dean gets a knee, a thigh, between Sam's where they are braced wide to hold what must be a good portion of Dean's weight as well as Sam's own. Dean says something more, a sparkle wicked in his eyes, and Sam's eyes narrow. He shakes his brother like a terrier shakes a rat. 

Dean grins with bared teeth and pulls at Sam's shirts until skin starts to show, tan and flushed. Sam's free hand finds Dean's belt and wrenches it open. 

Castiel wonders if perhaps Sam's worrying unnecessarily. And he wonders if he should turn away now. This looks less and less like a fight, to his mind, and more like the normal kind of human intimacy, as far as he understands it. Rough, but not dangerous. 

But … Dean's still shoving Sam away and clawing him back before there's even a feather's width between them, as if he can't decide what he wants. They are very nearly naked. Dean has his tee shirt on, has already dropped and stepped out of his jeans; Sam's shirts are gone and his flies are undone but his jeans are still hooked over the bones of his hips. 

This would be the time to leave. They've stopped shouting at each other - Sam's leaning down over Dean, their foreheads almost touching, their bodies held just so, and then Dean leans up, and they kiss. This is the first time Castiel has really seen it, really looked. They're so soft with each other like this, and it's raw; something this gentle after everything else Castiel's seen them do, it hurts like a bruise under fingertips. He aches for them. 

Castiel presses his fingers to the flaking paint of the windowsill, trying to steady himself, unexpectedly overwhelmed by his vessel's reaction to the sight. 

And then Sam breaks the kiss, his eyes screwed shut, and he shoves himself away this time, properly, hard enough to get a palm's width of space between them. He scrubs his hand over his face and Castiel knows without needing to see or hear that he's saying _no_.

 _Fine,_ is Dean's response, snapped. And again there's that moment of frozen time, when Castiel thinks they're going to stop and that this evening will go back to normal, but then Dean hauls his own shirt off, stripping rather than dressing, and he makes a show of it; curves against the wall, and takes himself in hand once he's bare. He says something else then, raises an eyebrow as a dare and a taunt. He strokes himself. 

And Sam - Sam _snarls_ , and then there's no space between them at all, none, because Sam hasn't just crushed Dean against the wall, he's grabbed him high, hitched Dean's thighs wide around his hips, pushing his jeans lower and lower. And then he hauls Dean's weight from the wall, takes it all himself and turns, stepping towards the bed in a rush, and they leave Castiel's sight, blocked by the curtains and all that Castiel can see is Sam's jeans when they're thrown against the wall. He can't see Sam or Dean, or what they're doing, and this is not according to the terms of his agreement with Sam.

He goes inside, because he said he'd watch, and so he will. He has to unfold his fingers from the dents he has left in the windowsill first, though. The kitchenette of this motel room doesn't have a door, it's open to the rest of the rented space, but there is a corner of it by the sink that's hidden from the beds, and that's where Castiel lands. 

The first thing that strikes him is the sound of it, before he can see a thing, the slap of their flesh together, and Dean's voice.

'Fuck, Sammy,' Dean is panting. 'Fuck. You - c'mon, that all you got? Come _on_.'

'If you don't shut up,' Sam growls warningly, as Castiel edges to the empty door frame, 'I'll gag you.'

'You'd like that, wouldn't you,' Dean says. Castiel can see him now, on his hands and knees on the mattress and grinning as Sam cages him in, inside and out.

'What I'd like is for you to stop playing fucking games with me,' Sam growls. He shifts his weight to one arm, the muscles of his shoulders bunching, and drags his fingers through Dean's hair, grabs him by the scalp and pulls his head back to rest in the wet hollow of Sam's throat, so that Sam can mutter in his ear. It seems that there are things Sam doesn't want Castiel to witness after all.

But then Dean says ' _Fuck_ ,' for the first time as if he's truly in pain, and Castiel stands there with pounding heart and the sensation of blood rushing in his ears and between his legs, heavy and hot, as Sam gets his knees under him without pulling out of his brother's body, drags Dean up into a sitting position against him, back to Sam's belly, in a hold he cannot break. Dean heaves and tries to grind back, still focused on his pleasure, but Sam's carding through his hair hurriedly and forced-gentle, and will not let him move.

Castiel sees why when Sam's fingers come away dark and wet, when a trickle of that darkness starts fresh down the already-stained cords of Dean's neck.

'You're still bleeding,' says Sam, voice shaking.

'Yeah,' Dean says, thighs shaking just as much, knees dragged wide around Sam's. 'I know, man, I'm wet with it. Headwounds bleed like a bitch. Bet I taste so fucking good. You wanna drink me, Sammy? That get you there? You wanna trade me? Give me what I want, fast and hard, for a drink?'

Castiel has to bite his lip on a gasp, to silence himself, because this is an idiot's move. Sam hasn't tasted blood in over a year, and he never drank anything that wasn't demon, to Castiel's knowledge, but still. Dean's treading the finest of lines here. 

Sam's breathing hard, so hard it rattles in his lungs, and his eyes are animal and wounded. He doesn't look as if his bloodlust is upon him, no - he looks cut to the heart. But Dean can't see his face. Only Castiel, standing stupidly nerveless and at the mercy of his own earthly vessel, can see the damage Dean has done.

Dean can't get free, but he manages to topple them, just using his weight to put off Sam's careful balance. Sam has to let his hold on Dean go and plant his hands in the bedclothes again just to catch his own weight, and they end up back on all fours, Sam shunted even further into his brother's body, and his head hangs low, hair stringy with sweat, over Dean's shoulder. He shakes hard, breathes harder, and Castiel knows the sight of someone at the edge of their control well enough that he knows Sam's barely hanging on. 

Dean does the moving for both of them, now he's freed - curves under Sam to pull himself a little bit free and then push back, spine arching, biting his lip, and he was right about how headwounds bleed - he seems so little affected it cannot be serious, but as Castiel watches the first drop of the blood runnelling weakly down his neck falls free and lands on Sam's already smeared-dark fingers, clenched in the sheets. 

'C'mon Sammy,' Dean pants. 'You want me or not?' and it's unclear what he means by it. He spreads his knees a little further, slides back into Sam's shadow a little further. 'Fuck, I know you want it, you're so fucking hard for me, Sam, why're you just sitting there, fucking give it to me, fucking _pound_ me, Sammy, taste me, c'mon - ' and it's clear as day that he wants Sam to hurt him, make him feel pain, feel clean - it's like a prayer to wash away sin. Castiel's eyes close involuntarily, he flushes with heat-want-stupid bodily desperations, his hands come to rest in front of him to hide the evidence of his vessel's impropriety and even that pressure and weight has him biting his lip.

In front of him Sam cannot seem to hold out any longer, cannot deny Dean, and he's tucked his face into the curve of Dean's neck despite the blood that wets it. He's not drinking, and Castiel cannot find even a tiny bit of the demonic addiction in his sense of Sam right now, in what Sam is broadcasting into the heavens. All he finds is wild lust and a deep chasm of love that he would bet anything he would find in Sam's soul were he to search it - empty and desperate - and anger, building on every thrust. Sam's grabbed Dean by one hip, getting blood smeared there too, and Dean's babbling, finally getting what he wants.

Dean falls into the mattress as he comes, and he's bathed in hurt and glory - Sam rears back, face and hands smeared red with his own brother's blood. And Castiel knows then that he's failed this time.

He flees, again, with Sam's accusing stare burnt into him. He goes back to his abandoned house and sits. This time, he does not allow the vessel to undergo its natural functions. That would be inappropriate.

***

Sam doesn't call. Castiel doesn't visit. The owners of the house he was occupying return from their holidays, so he wanders instead, taking shelter when he needs it and monitoring the communications of his former brethren. 

For the first time, he thinks he might understand 'loneliness'.

When Dean finally bellows for him, for help with a demon problem, he shows no sign that he's aware that Castiel has watched him rip his brother apart looking for mindless gratification. Sam just refuses to make eye contact with Castiel, and somehow they never end up alone together to talk it through. Castiel wants to tell Sam that he doesn't think any of it is Sam's fault, that Dean's at breaking strain trying to hold his 'Team Free Will' together and perhaps it shouldn't be a surprise that he's falling back on methods learnt in Hell to get what he wants - that he's hurting other people to take his own pain away. Castiel wants to tell Sam that giving in to Dean like this isn't an abuse. That Sam clearly needs just as much as Dean does, and that maybe he should trust himself a little more, and let himself really have what he wants. 

But the way Sam looks at him and looks away says that he thinks of Castiel as a witness to his guilt, a secret keeper or maybe a fellow conspirator. Maybe it's Castiel's punishment that he's always silently complicit in Sam's sins as well as helpless to absolve Dean's confessions. 

'I'm sorry,' Castiel manages to mutter to Sam in passing, and Sam's jaw sets grimly.

'Try harder,' is all he says in return. 

They kill the demon. Sam washes his brown-reddened hands grimly while Dean claps him on the back. Signs Castiel can read plainer than any language of angels or men now that he's attuned tell him what is about to happen. 

He should leave. Which means he should stay. 

But Dean, unexpectedly, takes the choice away from him. He orders a pizza over the phone and then says, 'Cas, man, you should crash here tonight. If anyone else comes for us, we're all better off together.' He pulls out the spare blanket from the room's one cupboard, and spreads it on the sofa. 'We good?' 

They eat the pizza, and both Winchesters shower, and all the windows and the door are salted and the weapons are cleaned. It's a ritual for calm as much as it is for safety. After everyone has stopped twitching from too much adrenaline, Dean takes the sofa, Sam takes the bed closest to the door, and Castiel lies down in the remaining bed to appease his vessel, trying to remember how sleep is supposed to work. Neither Dean nor Sam makes much noise when they sleep, and neither of them moves much, either. Dean lies on his stomach, Castiel sees out of the corner of his eye, legs curled up because he's slightly too tall for the sofa, one arm pillowed under his cheek and the other buried under his pillow where Castiel suspects he has a weapon cached. 

Sam lies on his stomach too, facing the door and legs bent into a tight S because no bed is quite long enough for him and he must have resigned himself to that a long time ago. Castiel can't see if, or more likely where, he's hidden a weapon.

The clock glows faded green. Castiel busies himself watching it and calibrating the human twenty-four hour measure of time against his own innate sense of it. 

When it reads 0330, Sam twitches onto his back and murmurs, 'You're not asleep, are you.'

'No,' Castiel admits.

'I screwed up,' Sam says. 'I screwed up bad, Cas.'

'That's an oversimplification,' Castiel points out, quietly. 'There were three of us there.' 

'Yeah, and Dean's a masochist and you're a virgin, no offence. So I shoulda been the one keeping my fucking head.'

It is impossible to get a Winchester to let go of guilt he's claimed. So Castiel asks, instead of arguing, 'What will we do, then?'

'You have to stop me,' says Sam. He rolls over to face Castiel, eyes gleaming even in the lack of light. 'If he gets me going, if we fight, anything like that, you gotta stop it.'

'Stop you from ... having sex. Entirely.' Castiel dislikes this idea even more than he disliked the previous one. It means he'll have to deny them comfort, and it means he'll have to get between them, now, of all times. 

'It's the only thing I can think of,' says Sam stonily. He pushes his hair out of his face. 'Cas, I'm hurting him and it doesn't matter why. It has. To stop.'

Castiel turns onto his back rather than answer. Sam's shadowed face, the sickly green of the clock numerals, they both disappear, except Castiel can still hear Sam's breathing and the hum of electricity through the cheap plastic clock.

'Cas?' Sam says. 'Will you do it? Will you help me?'

'Yes,' says Castiel heavily. 'I'll help you.' Again.

'Thanks,' says Sam. Again.

The next time Castiel blinks, the sun is inching between the badly drawn curtains and Dean is clumping around in his boxer shorts waving a Bowie knife while wiggling his pinkie finger in his ear. 

'Time to hit the road?' he asks, completely oblivious. 

***

The Winchesters 'hit the road', but Castiel stays behind. He doesn't have a reason to go with them and he knows his presence must interfere with their routines, their methods of living that have let them stay under so many radars for so long. There isn't much for him to do though, when they are out of his sight. 

There is a park in this particular town, so he walks there after the sun is fully risen, which allows the vessel some exercise, and finds a tree to sit under. He can still hear Dean and Sam, who are now some forty seven miles away and bickering about a potential case. He would not have normally heard conversations so mundane, but Sam clearly wants him to, is broadcasting somehow. It gives him something to do, listening to them. And it's restful, in the odd way any kind of routine is. 

_'It just seems like kind of a waste of time, Dean - it's just a ghost, dude, Bobby's probably already got like three other hunters on it. We have bigger fish to fry.'_

_'You got any leads on these bigger fish?'_

_'No, but that doesn't mean we should be spreading ourselves thin. Let's just get another room and try and get some sleep, for once. Maybe find a meal that involves something that wasn't fried to death.'_

_'You wanna hit the showers, Sammy, that's fine. But there's work out there. I thought you wanted back in -'_

Dean will get his way, Castiel knows. Sam might want his brother to take better care, might even want a rest himself, but if Dean wants to hunt he'll hunt, and Sam will back him to the hilt. They both know it, too. Sam's voice is tired - Dean clearly doesn't understand why they're even having the conversation. 

He's been driving too long. That might be a metaphor. And Sam has been sitting in the passenger's side too long as well. 

And Castiel thinks, with his head tipped back against the tree trunk, sunlight through leaves spangling his vision, that it's unfair. That this is all backwards - that they're trying to force comfort on each other when it's not wanted and they're trying to take control from each other when it's needed. 

When they're at ease with each other, Dean lets Sam drive. It's his sincerest gesture of trust. It makes Sam smile like nothing else, a smile that _lasts_ on his sharp, so-often sad face; being tossed the keys, watching Dean fold into sleep under his jacket in the passenger's seat. But when they're at war between themselves, Dean will clutch at the wheel until his eyes blur.

Castiel squints in the halos the noon light makes in his eyes, picking the truth out of this. Dean has been driving too long, and Sam is itching to spell him. 

And Castiel is in the back seat, as usual, trying to understand. 

***

Castiel doesn't wait for either of the brothers to call him. He lets them find a motel, lets them settle in, and then does what Dean refers to as 'lurking' outside. This way, he can not only listen but watch as well, and it feels like guarding, too. He's walking a perimeter around them, drawing a kind of line. It grounds him in duty, and he needs that now. 

He thinks he has the solution, but he needs to talk to Sam. It isn't something he can implement. All he can do is give the suggestion. But then again, he is an angel, isn't communication supposed to be his function?

The sun is starting to sink and Castiel has found a bench seat a few rooms away that affords him a view of the Winchester's door without being directly in the sightlines of anyone coming out of it. It doesn't take long before Sam ducks out of the room, heading to the Impala, clearly on the evening's food run. Perfect.

Castiel moves to the passenger's seat once Sam's pulled out of the parking lot. 

Sam doesn't jump, exactly, but he swears and grips the steering wheel tighter than normal. He keeps his eyes fixed dead in front of him, and says, 'Dude, you need to learn to make noise when you move.'

Castiel ignores him. 'I withdraw my support for your plan.'

Sam's jaw tightens, but he keeps his eyes on the road. 'If you can't help me, I can just get another room,' he says. 'Or I can take separate cases from Dean or something. I know I can't just stop hunting, but -'

'No,' says Castiel, the word ripping out of his throat before he's quite ready to let it go. 'You and Dean must stay together.'

'So, what, I'm supposed to fuck him through the wall every time he doesn't have enough bourbon to take the edge off?' Sam finally looks at Castiel, just a sideways flick of his eyes. 'That's not a coping mechanism, Cas, it's practically a goddamn deathwish.'

He's thinking about the blood, Castiel can tell - narrowed eyes, hunched shoulders, white knuckles. Sam knows his limits and all of them can be crossed by blood. 

If he could, he would show Sam his memories of them together, show him that the point they tip on isn't between love and hurt, or comfort and anger, although all those things are part of it - but between need and want. Sam needs - needs control, needs direction, needs responsibility, and Dean wants. 

_He wants to be the centre of your world,_ Castiel suddenly thinks, realises. _He wants to know you'll choose him over everything, he wants to feel you as part of him. The way you need to know he will always be there for you too._ It's got the ring of truth to it, it's an epiphany. His fingernails dig into the meat of his palm though, because he can't show this to Sam. He doesn't have the power any more to even think of trying it, and more than that, he would be showing Sam how he watched them, how he felt watching them. How that need and want is something he's started to internalise for himself.

He can't protect them any more. He can't trust himself to stay on the outside. Because he's falling, and now he has needs and wants of his own, things he can't ever confess. But Sam has to know at least the beginnings of it before Castiel can leave.

'It's only dangerous because you let him push you too far,' Castiel says, hoping Sam will understand him. It's almost simple, but it's hard to see. He knows. 'You said to me that Dean isn't a good judge of his own desires,' Castiel says hurriedly, into the silence. 'Maybe that's what he needs you for. Think about it,' Castiel advises Sam, and leaves the car before he says anything further.

He doesn't even know where he's landed, just that there's a faulty streetlight that only glows with a seed of faint orange above him, that there's a frost crunching the grass under his feet, before _Cas? Cas, goddammit. Castiel! Fucking get back here, you son of a bitch!_

Ignoring a prayer so fervent is like trying to ignore one of the insect-bites that Castiel is finding he's prone to. And Sam keeps calling, swearing and growling. He's mid-rant when Castiel gives in. 

'- drop something like that on me and disappear -'

'I don't know what more you want me to say,' Castiel says awkwardly. 'I can't - Sam, I should never have -' 

'What? Never have watched us? Never have listened in?' Sam sounds bitter, maybe, or perhaps there's something else that makes those words tug at Castiel's heart. He can't figure it out.

But it isn't the watching and listening that led them to this pass, so Castiel corrects him. 'I should never have got involved. This is between you and Dean.'

Sam huffs a laugh between gritted teeth, and rolls his eyes. 'Castiel, since you showed up, nothing has been just between me and Dean. You're there, all the time - you know it, I know it, God knows _he_ knows it. It doesn't matter whether we see you or not. It doesn't even matter if you really are watching - you might as well be.' He bites his lip. 'You're involved, okay? So help me, please. Whatever ideas you have, tell me.'

Castiel doesn't know what to say.

'So, what,' says Sam, flicking the indicator on at the top of a T-junction. 'You think he wants … whips and chains, or something?'

'I think he wants you,' Castiel says hesitantly. He has watched them more than he should have, and Sam will know it if he says too much, but he can _help_ , so he tries to find the words to articulate something that he has only felt. 'I think he wants this,' and Castiel gestures jerkily at them, the car, the expanse of empty road ahead of them before the town. 'This - familiarity. Safety?'

Sam doesn't say anything, just keeps driving. 

'When he bled, he thought it would make you stay.' Castiel's voice seems very thin in counterpoint to the Impala's engine-note. 'He thought it was what you would want.'

'I just want him to stop sacrificing himself,' Sam mutters. Buildings are starting to reappear along the roadside in ones and twos as they come into the town proper, rather than the backwater their motel lurks in.

'Then take what he's trying to give you,' Castiel says. 'He wants you to have it.'

'Control.' Sam pulls the car up outside a little supermarket, and pulls the keys from the ignition. 'But how is that any different, Cas? What if I just - what if I don't have enough to spare?'

Castiel just says, half-plea and half-order, 'Don't make him drive any longer.'

Sam curls his fingers tight around the car keys and nods. But before Castiel can leave him, he says, 'I'll need backup.'

He looks at Castiel and there is absolutely nowhere left for Castiel to hide in that gaze. 'Don't tell me you only watch us because it's your duty,' Sam says. 'I see you. I see the way you look at him.'

'I -'

'And if you don't see how he looks at you, you must be blind. You won't stop me?' Sam says, defiant. 'Then get on board.'

***

'Cas?' Dean says, turning around as Castiel and Sam walk back into the motel room. Sam is carrying a bag of burgers that he puts on the table and just from the way he squares off at Dean immediately, confrontationally, Castiel suspects that they will go cold before they're eaten. 

'Hello, Dean,' Castiel says. He is hanging back, he realises. 

'Is everything okay?' Dean asks, and Castiel sees he thinks that there must be something wrong, for Castiel to be there with them. 

'Everything is fine,' Castiel says, fingers twitching at the hems of his sleeves. 

'Dean,' says Sam. 'I asked him to come back with me.'

The angry way he says it and the long pause afterwards make Castiel deeply uncomfortable, but he knows that if he leaves now, no matter how gracefully, they will only clamour for him to come back and nothing will be solved between them. Dean is looking at Castiel in a way that suggests he's more deliberately _not_ looking at Sam. Sam, behind him, keeps half-clenching and relaxing his fists, practically vibrating every time he takes a breath. 

How has it come to this, where these two can love each other so fiercely and yet have no way to tell each other? Sam's eyes on Dean are burning with unsaid devotion and Dean's body is attuned to Sam even if his face is turned to Castiel, hungry and empty and uncomprehending of why. 

Castiel is an angel. He should fulfil his function, and communicate. 

'I'm here to help,' he says to Dean, dry-mouthed and sure and ready to do whatever he has to to make things right. 'Whatever it is you need, Dean, you can have it if only you'll ask for it.' He holds the eye contact and hopes that Dean will understand. 

'You think I need something?' Dean asks, belligerent. He crosses his arms in front of his chest and stands his ground. 'What do you think I need, huh Cas?'

'Dean -' says Sam from behind. Dean doesn't even turn around, but he flinches minutely, enough for Castiel to notice. 

'Respite,' Castiel says. He steps forward, opening his hands to show his peaceful intent. 'Comfort. To have your hunger fed and your thirst slaked and your aches tended. Let us help you, Dean.'

Dean just stares at him. 

Sam clears his throat, and again Cas watches Dean's hyperawareness of his brother take that in. 'I know you want it,' Sam says. 'And you know I want it too. That's not even in question. But we keep fucking it up, Dean. We're not … understanding each other.'

Dean snorts, and looks back over his shoulder. 'It's sex, Sam. It's not that complicated.'

'It is, the way you go about it,' Castiel interjects, before this can devolve into sour humour and derail itself. 'I have watched over humanity for many hundreds of years. Most of the time human coupling _is_ uncomplicated. But you two …' He doesn't know what to say without sounding overinvested, overinformed. 'Your union is forbidden by human law, and you don't seem to care. You have to be secretive, and that doesn't bother you either. You actively seek other partners as if carnal union is a trivial pastime, but when you're together it shakes Heaven loud enough that I can hear you every time you touch.' He steps forward, into Dean's space enough that he can feel the heat of his body. 'There is _nothing_ simple about this, Dean, and the end of days is almost upon us. We cannot afford disharmony between us. If you and Sam will not find the middle ground and care for each other, then it falls to me.'

'To do what?' Dean asks, and he sounds defiant but his eyes are wide with dilated pupils and his lips remain parted on a soft breath - arousal, Castiel diagnoses, tinged with hope, salted with longing. 

'To facilitate,' Castiel says, and meets Sam's eyes over Dean's shoulder. 

Sam's face is twisted with hunger. He nods, and Castiel kisses Dean. 

A kiss can be a mark of brotherhood, of affection, as much as anything else, and Castiel touches his mouth to Dean's in the hope that what he's offering will be understood. Dean makes a soft noise and his lips part, promising. 

'Show him, Dean,' Sam says hotly, closer than Castiel remembers him being only seconds ago. 'Show him what you really want.' Castiel feels Sam's hands curve over Dean's body, in the space between them. 'Cas, you ever been kissed before?'

Castiel has - although not in this form, not for this purpose, not this way. 'Yes,' he says, pulling away from Dean enough to get the word out. He can still feel Dean's lips against his skin, though. 'No.'

'He's good,' Sam says, curling his fingers into Castiel's belt loops, pulling him forward into Dean. 'Let him show you.' 

Dean makes a hungry noise and pulls at Castiel's lower lip with his teeth. Castiel gasps at the sweet sting of it and before he knows quite what's happening Dean licks his way into his mouth. 

'What do you want, Dean?' Sam asks softly, his voice soaking between them. He's still holding them together. Dean makes a noise into Castiel's mouth and ignores his brother. 'Cas?' Sam tries. 'What does he want?' 

Castiel pulls himself free, reluctantly, just far enough to speak but not far enough that he isn't still consumed with awareness of Dean's heat, scent, taste. He thinks, reaches for that awareness, tries to sort through all this confusion. And the way Dean looks at him, stubborn, licking his lips - it's not the same circumstance but it's something Castiel has seen, heard in prayers, before.

It's tangled up, knotted ... Castiel hasn't seen it so entwined in other emotions - love, lust, lack of faith - before, but Castiel knows the taste of a man who wants to pay for his sins and be done with them.

'Penance, I think,' he says at last, fingers twitching at the hem of Dean's shirt for want of something to do with his hands. Dean looks away, the way he does when you're right, and he can't lie, and he can't admit, and he won't compromise. Castiel looks up instead of trying to chase Dean's gaze, to meet Sam's eyes instead. Because Sam does understand that Dean thinks he needs to pay for something, but there's more to it than that. The second step is perhaps more important than the first, and Castiel wishes to make that very clear. 'But afterwards,' he says, willing Sam to understand him, 'forgiveness.'

The way Sam looks at him, looks at Dean, looks away just the same as his brother does for a split second, makes Castiel think that Dean isn't the only person seeking more than one thing out of this.

***

Sam insists on checking the locks, the wards, and the salt lines before doing anything further, but he leaves Dean in Castiel's care. 'He's gonna give you trouble,' Sam warns Castiel in a voice that says he thinks that's just fine. 'You might wanna be prepared for mutiny,' and Castiel decides then and there that he will not be for Dean what Sam is - a source of friction. He waits for Dean to make a move, rather than approaching him himself, and sure enough Dean comes to him with confidence and something hitherto unknown that Castiel has to class as seduction in his manner, takes Castiel's face in his hands and kisses him. 

He's slow and all-consuming, like he's memorising or categorising this experience - he keeps his mouth closed at first and just presses close, and then he lips at Castiel, making space for himself, licking inside and encouraging Castiel to reciprocate through subtle touches that Castiel doesn't understand how he parses - but he does. He tastes Dean too, the texture of him under his tongue, slick and tactile and filled with an awareness that Castiel never really appreciated before. Dean knows what he's doing, in this space. 

Sam's hands slide back between them to unbuckle Dean's belt. 'Cas says you need me to drive, Dean,' he says. 'That true?'

Dean pulls away from Castiel with Castiel's lower lip still caught between his teeth, gently biting as he slides away, and Castiel feels the tiny sting of pressure as pleasure. 'If it is, why you asking me?'

Castiel catches him by his wrists before he can move any further away, although the only space he has to move into is that occupied by Sam, who is peeling Dean's undershirt out from where it has been caught by the waist of his jeans. 'Because there has been too much assumption and silence already,' Castiel says, tugging firmly on Dean's wrists. 'Answer your brother.'

Dean blinks. 'If he wants to -'

'I said answer him,' Castiel growls, and watches the way the pupils of Dean's eyes dilate. 'Do _you_ want him? Do you trust him? Will you let him take care of you?'

Dean's breath is coming short as Sam presses up closer to him, as Castiel keeps hold of him, and he looks aside again, licks his lips, closes his eyes and breathes out, 'I do, okay, you fucking- I do. I will. All of it.' 

And Sam's hands slide up against Castiel's, to take hold of Dean, and Castiel presses a kiss to Dean's forehead and steps back. 'Then he will do it,' Castiel says, and he knows it's true.

'I trust you, too, y'know,' says Dean in a low voice, quiet enough that Castiel could pretend he didn't hear it. He should pretend. He's done enough. He should go.

But Sam looks at him with heat in his eyes, and Dean with that hard certainty he has, and Castiel has been lost a good long time now but maybe he's found something here that he can belong to, because he finds himself stepping back towards them, and Dean pulls him in.

'You know what you've let yourself in for, right?' he says, grinning his tension against the thin skin of Castiel's throat, face tucked in low. Castiel lets him hide like that, buries his own face in Dean's hair, feeling shyness of his own, until he hears the sound of Sam rifling through the stockpiled weaponry. The sound of steel on steel scrape-sliding, and he looks up. 

Dean looks up too. Sam is holding the Kurdish demon-killing blade like an extension of his body, and beside Castiel Dean sucks in a breath. 'You said no, when I -' Dean says. 'You said - Sammy, you don't have to do that.'

Sam shrugs, shifting, settling somewhere between his fighting stance and the same hungry set of the shoulders Dean had used when reaching for Castiel. 'I guess if you trust me then I have to trust me too.'

'If you don't wanna do this -'

'Believe me, Dean,' Sam says, licking his lips, 'that's never been the problem. Cas?'

'Yes?' Castiel says, uncertain and eager to be part of this, feeling Dean's body thrumming against his, the hot awareness of slivers of skin where they've untucked his shirts, the clink of his loose belt buckle. The way Sam watches them both, too, makes Castiel ready for this. Dean needs him. Sam needs him. And Cas needs them. Needs to help them, yes - that's an old angelic drive, deep-seated - but needs them _for himself_ as much as he needs to be needed.

'Get him on the bed.' Sam squares his shoulders and Dean tenses, breathes deep, and releases it on a shudder. Castiel can see the way it loosens something in him.

'What's the plan, Sammy?' Dean asks, as Castiel wraps his hands around Dean's hips, nudging his fingertips under Dean's waistband just because he can, he's allowed - he wants and he can take, and in taking this maybe he's giving something as well. He pulls Dean backwards and Dean goes easily, kicks his shoes off as he moves, turning into Castiel's body like he's following some choreography that Castiel is only just learning the steps to. Castiel has always been quick to acquire skills, though. He hits the mattress with the back of his knees and folds back onto it, taking Dean with him.

Sam's still watching them, running the pad of his thumb over the blade of his knife. 

'Cas is gonna fuck you,' Sam says. 'Gonna give you just what you need - but you gotta tell him, Dean. I wanna hear you talk, I wanna hear you _ask_ for something for once in your goddamn life, cos Cas, he's not like me, he's not gonna let you rile him up until he snaps, and let you get off on it. You're gonna have to talk him through how to take care of you.'

Dean's already squirming on Castiel's lap, spurring Castiel's body into reactions he's ignored every other time stimulus has excited them. Not now, though, not this time. This time he wants to use them. He tightens his hold on Dean's hips and lets himself grind up, just a little bit, seeking friction, slips his hands around further and touches even more.

'And you?' Dean asks. 'Sammy?'

'Gonna cut you,' Sam says, and Castiel feels Dean's cock jerk against the flat palm of his hand. 'Make it sting for you, hurt you the way you want - keep you grounded.' There's something soft in his eyes as he says it, and Dean's already turned his face away, almost twisted in Castiel's hold as if he wants to bury his blushing face in Castiel's shoulder. Sam moves closer, pulls Dean's face back around to look him in the eye, big, big hand caught at the hinge of Dean's jaw. 'It's okay,' he says. 'Dean, it's okay. I know why - I - I want it too, man. It's just wiring, it's the way we are and it's _okay_ ,' he says fiercely. 'We're gonna take care of you. Right, Cas?' He lets Dean go and reaches for the knot in Castiel's tie. 

'Right,' says Castiel, unsure of when his voice got so raw, and Sam reels him in by his tie, and kisses him, caging Dean between them. 

It isn't like kissing Dean, except that in some moments it is exactly like kissing Dean, and Castiel wonders perhaps inappropriately how formative their experiences with each other like this have been. Sam slips a hand round to cup the base of Castiel's skull and takes charge as natural as breathing, licks in at the corner of Castiel's mouth and, unlike Dean, Sam makes him work to breathe, to keep up, to keep his head. Nothing like kissing Dean in that way, but exactly like kissing Dean, it is addictive. 

'You're both wearing too many clothes,' Dean growls after a moment, pushing at Sam until he lets Castiel go. Sam doesn't move far, though, just far enough to unthread Castiel's tie and bring Ruby's knife up to lie flat against Dean's sternum. 

'If you want it, you've got to ask for it,' Sam reminds Dean. 'Otherwise it doesn't happen.' He balls Castiel's tie up one-handed and tosses it away. 

'I want you naked,' says Dean hotly, and he's not clear who he's saying it to, hooking his ankles around Castiel's calves and spreading himself out wantonly, staring Sam in the eye as he does it, as he voices his demand. 

'Cas?' Sam says, shifting his eyes back up. 'You heard him. Get naked.’

Stripping requires that Castiel take his hands off Dean, and he doesn't want to. But Dean turns around in his lap and starts on the buttons of Castiel's shirt himself, and Sam laughs softly. Dean suddenly tenses in Castiel's arms. 

'Ohfuck,' he breathes as one word. _'Sam,_ please, I want -'

'Want me to start?' Sam asks. He's playing with the knife, twirling it, twisting it between his fingers barely a millimeter from the skin of Dean's back, then dragging the point over the knobs of Dean's spine just light enough to leave a line. Castiel can see it over Dean's shoulder, white then pink. 

Castiel sees the peace Dean takes from the touch of steel to his skin, from being this closely hemmed in by people he trusts, from the depth of Sam's voice and the places Castiel is touching him, and answers for him. 'Yes,' he says to Sam. 'Let's begin.'

Between them, they take Dean's weight, switching and holding and pulling, to get his trousers off. Sam keeps grazing the blade of the knife against the planes of Dean's body, takes his attention while Castiel removes his own clothes. His fingers fumble the buttons. All the things he has seen and done, of and for these men, and this is where he falters? It's such a ridiculously human, incongruous reaction that he smiles, pulling the belt out of his waistband and pushing his trousers down, and Sam catches his eyes and smiles in return, and lets the sharp edge of the knife part Dean's skin, just under one collarbone. 

Dean sucks in a breath, melts back against Castiel, and Castiel braces himself on one arm, leaning back, and wraps the other around Dean's hip, steadying him. Sam keeps cutting, shallow slices that well up red, bead in lines but don't spill, and Dean thrusts up into thin air and his throat works as if he wants to make noise but can't, or won't. 

Like this he's almost riding Castiel, constant friction, and Castiel wants, more than he has wanted anything before, to just lift Dean and position him correctly, or to tip him onto his hands and knees and do the things he's watched Sam do to Dean that made him moan and rut and pant. Castiel hasn't done them before but it didn't look that difficult. He wants it. He wants to do it. Without thinking, he clenches his hand around the rounded bone of Dean's hip, fingertips brushing close to his cock. 

'Cas,' Dean breathes. His eyes are shut, his head tipped back on Castiel's shoulder. 'You really gonna make me ask?' He is starting to bleed now in tiny smears from where he's moved unwisely. Sam is tracing the tracks of it with the tip of the knife and licking his lips. 

'That was the agreement,' Castiel says, with some effort. 'You have to ask. But I promise, I'll give you what you want.'

Dean breathes out on a shudder. 'Touch me,' he says. Sam nicks the skin under his left nipple, and he jerks in Castiel's hands. 'Touch my cock, Cas, please, just fucking - I need you to touch me.'

'Is that all you want?' Castiel asks, sliding his hand over, wrapping his fingers at last around Dean, sweat-wet and steel-hard and entrancing. He doesn't know exactly what he's expecting Dean to say, just that this - the relative simplicity of Dean wanting, Cas pleasing him, Sam hurting him, all balanced - is not everything there is to this. 'What else, Dean?' Cas asks, and Sam laughs, puts the knife down on the bedside table and edges further onto the mattress. 

'Tell him, Dean,' Sam urges his brother gently, cupping his jaw and pulling Dean to his knees, pulling his head up so he can look into Dean's eyes. Dean makes a displeased sound when Castiel is forced to let go of his cock, looks up at Sam and then turns his head away. 'C'mon,' Sam wheedles. 'You're doing so good.' 

Sam's almost on the edge of the bed - even a mattress this large was not made for three grown men - so Castiel wriggles himself backwards until he can sit against the head of the bed, hopes this will give the Winchesters more room. He appreciates the picture they make, and for once he can admit that it is not solely the aesthetics of his Father's creation that stirs him. 

Sam does take advantage of the space. He shuffles Dean backwards on his knees, back until he's within Castiel's reach again. 'D'you want Cas to jerk you off?' Sam asks. He thumbs over a deeper cut and Dean hisses, snaps to attention. 'Cos I don't think you do,' Sam keeps on, smearing at Dean's blood as if he can't stop himself, swirling patterns on Dean's skin and Dean moans full-throated. Castiel feels his own cock thicken even further at the sight they make - Sam looming over Dean, Dean half-turned away from him but responding to his every move. 'I think you want more,' Sam says. 'Don't you.'

'Please,' Castiel adds, reaching out to touch Dean's hip, feeling slick blood under the pad of his thumb. 'Dean, ask me.' 

Dean twists in their hold a moment longer but when Sam lifts his reddened fingers up to Dean's mouth and makes him lick them, it's as if he can't deny himself any longer. 'I want to get fucked,' he says, voice a cracked and ruined version of how he usually sounds. Sam kisses him then, red and hungry, and walks him back further until Castiel can take hold once more, but Dean isn't done talking, floodgates opened. 'That what you wanted to hear, Sammy? Cas?' he asks. 'I want to get fucked til I can't fucking stand, I want you to cut on me, spank me, I don't care, I just - ' his voice breaks, he drags his hand across his face. 'Stop asking me,' he begs. 'Not for a _yes_. Anything but that.'

Sam looks like he's been punched for a second before his resolve returns. Castiel reaches out and takes the knife up from the bedside table, kneels up and pushes it into Sam's hand. 'You heard him,' Cas says gently. 'And we did promise.' He pulls open the top drawer, fumbles inside for the things he knows Sam and Dean always put within reach. 

Sam draws the knife up to lie against Dean's collarbones and says, 'You know what to do?' when Castiel retrieves condoms and lubrication in a bottle and looks up at him. Castiel imagines, from Sam's expression, that he must be holding them the way Eve clutched the apple. 

That probably makes Sam the serpent, which is unflattering, but it's thematically appropriate and anyway, Castiel is no longer particularly convinced that plucking the forbidden fruit was such a terrible thing. 

'I've seen -' he starts, and Dean moans and laughs at the same time. 

'Be quiet,' Castiel says to him softly. 'I am about to do what you asked me to - if you take issue with my technique then you can tell me when it happens.' He trails his fingers down over Dean's skin, from the sweep of his ribcage down and in, to the broad edge of his hip, the tight curve of his backside, and when he looks up to drip lubricant on his fingers before going further he sees that Sam has one hand braced, gripping the corded muscle of Dean's neck and looking down, concentrating as if he's doing something delicate. He almost certainly is, where Castiel cannot see it but can watch the consequences - like this, where Dean's head is tipped back, eyes closed, breathing through sensation. 

Castiel is entranced, almost enough to forget his own purpose. Almost, but not quite. He wets his fingers and touches again. Dean is strong, muscular as a consequence, and Castiel finds the way into his body tight, but he yields. Castiel pushes slickness before him and starts small, just the tip of a finger and working by feel, to better watch Dean as he reacts. Like combat - awareness of those around you, movement and body-memory. Castiel knows Dean from his very atoms. He hasn't done this before but it isn't so hard when you know a body's tolerances, and he knows what Dean can take more intimately than he knows anything else on this mortal plane.

Sam smiles at him over Dean's shoulder when their hands brush each other. Sam's dressed still. There's a smudge of Dean's blood on his cheekbone, high up. 'How's he doing? Sam asks Dean softly. 

Dean whines and turns his face away. Castiel can feel him twitch and clench around his fingers. He doesn't want to answer, that much is plain. Castiel eases himself free, adds more lubricant, and slides three fingers back in. Dean's spine tightens and relaxes, and there's a fine tremble in his limbs that makes Castiel hungry to hold him tighter. 'Dean?' says Sam, playing the point of his blade around the cords of Dean's throat, not cutting, just teasing. 'I asked you a question.'

'Have a little pity,' Castiel tries, working his fingers deeper because Dean pushes himself back into it every time, ignoring how his own vessel wants to dispense with fingers and move on, wants to him to bury himself in Dean's clinging, clenching, wanting body. But Dean isn't ready for it yet, and it isn't Castiel's role here to give him resistance.

'He doesn't want pity,' Sam says, and Dean's eyes are closed and it's Castiel Sam's looking at when he says it. His eyes are dilated black-dark-demonic and yet utterly not, so aroused, so full of love for Dean that Castiel can taste it in the air between them. 'He wants _this_ , don't you Dean.' Sam's knife lifts, until he's tracing Dean's mouth with it, that perfect wide shape, open and gasping. 

'Please,' Dean says. He locks an arm backwards around Castiel's neck, drawing him in suddenly. Inside, Castiel spreads his fingers just a little, flexes them just a little, working for openness, gritting his teeth against the swamping lust that Dean's body against his brings on. 'Wanna get fucked up,' Dean says. 'He's good, Sam,' he says. He opens his eyes, eyelashes fanning against Castiel's cheek. 'He's - _unnh_ \- thorough.'

'And is that what you want?' Sam asks, still running the blade softly against Dean's skin.

'Fuck, Sam -' says Dean brokenly. He writhes on Castiel's fingers, pushes his chest out when Sam runs the knife down his sternum, and Castiel hooks his chin over Dean's shoulder to watch how Dean breathes into it and lets the knife leave one more wet red line on him, feels how he shudders, hears the tiny moan he breathes out. 

'Is that what you want?' Sam asks Dean again. 'Is _this_ what you want?'

'Shut up,' Dean growls, and Sam's smile is wolfish and perfect. 

'Cas,' he says, bringing the knife back to Dean's mouth, watching him lick it lean. 'Get a condom.' He gets off the bed then, kneels on the floor and pulls Dean forward with him until he's on his hands and knees, presented for Castiel. Castiel's breath sticks in his throat as he fumbles with the contraceptive. 'Squeeze the tip of it,' Sam says, noticing. 'Roll it down - yeah, that's it. Now c'mon and give it to him. Just - yeah -' as Castiel kneels up, positions himself. 

Dean moans, low and deep and pulling strings in the wiring of Castiel's vessel, and Castiel pushes in.

'Oh,' he says, stupidly. His hands are clamped on Dean's hips and Dean sways beneath him. Everything he can feel narrows down to this, this pinprick of focus - there are no angels in obedient chorus, no wavelengths of other awarenesses outside of this room. He does not know how many people are in this tiny town any more. He does not know the phase of the moon or the names of the prophets or the finer points of Enochian demon-banishing sigils - all he knows is the tightness of Dean around him, the scent of Winchester skin and sweat, the tang of steel - everything is taste and smell and sight, the human senses all he needs, all he can find right now. 

'Slow,' Sam's saying, cradling Dean's face in his hands. 'You hear me, Cas? Slow for now.' 

Dean's whimpering for more, is the thing. And Castiel wants to hilt himself in this clinging heat, do as he's asked. But … Dean doesn't _feel_ ready for more, and Castiel is more inclined to trust Sam, and do as he's told. He stutters bodily, trying to keep himself under control. 'Tell me what to do,' Castiel says, biting his lip. 'Sam, please, help me,' he pants. 'I don't -'

'I know,' Sam says, and he kneels up, takes Dean's face against his shoulder, his bloodstained undershirt, and reaches out to touch Castiel's jaw, run his bloodied thumb over Castiel's bottom lip. 'I know, you just want him. You'll make him feel so good, Cas, you don't even know, he wants it so badly, wants _you_ so badly - ' 

_'Please,'_ Dean groans from under them, and he bucks up into Castiel, forces him in further, and that resistance is lessening. Castiel pushes experimentally and Dean swears. 'If you don't fucking give it to me -'

'He's ready,' says Sam, smiling, pulling back, fumbling behind him. He lets Dean go. 'Do it, Cas. Fuck him.'

Castiel does as he's told. Dean moans full-blooded when Castiel pulls free and pushes home once more, he's hot and slick and sinful inside, he's the honest parts of combat and the steel-true loyalty of love, he's Castiel's purpose, he always has been, and Castiel is inside him and around him and reduced to function, to _taking care of Dean_ , guarding Dean, indulging Dean and tasting him, knowing him, pleasing him, serving him - he pants and ruts up, grinds into Dean's flesh, and Dean's back is gleaming with sweat, dark-brown smudges, the ghosts of Sam's fingerprints bloodied into him. 'Dean,' Castiel says, hollow, lost. 'Dean, I - Sam -' because Sam is there too, scrabbling back onto the bed and holding the demon knife to Dean's throat, kissing Dean's mouth, stroking Castiel's clenched fist where it's wrenching the sheets aside, grounding them both in the ways they need. 

'Yeah,' Dean pants, arching his back. 'Harder, Cas. Please, harder -'

'He's gonna give you just what you want,' Sam says. 'Cos you asked, Dean, you asked, you're doing so good, just how we want you. Want you to give it up for us - everything, Dean. Gonna cut it all away, baby,' he murmurs, cupping Dean's face, stroking his hair, petting him at the same time as he puts tiny, shallow nicks into the skin of Dean's chest, flicking the point of the knife into his flesh. Castiel feels every time the steel slides home because Dean twitches and clutches tighter at the blankets and around Castiel's cock.

Castiel gasps, can't help the way his hips snap faster and faster. Dean growls deep in his lungs and wrenches himself away from Sam's hand, dropping to his elbows and nosing at Sam's fly.

'Oh,' says Sam softly. 'Hey, okay. If that's what you want,' and the way he fumbles to unzip himself, the way he plants his hand and the knife flat on Dean's back, the way he sucks in a breath as Dean puts his mouth around his cock, makes Castiel moan, brokenly. The heat pulsing through him is a storm now. He wants nothing but this. There _is_ nothing but this. He closes his eyes and feels his way through it, holds Dean tighter, slams in harder and harder and harder, chasing something he doesn't understand, and his hand finds Sam's, their fingers touching over Dean's wet, slick skin. 

'Cas,' Sam murmurs. 'Cas, it's okay.'

'Am I - is this right?' Castiel gasps, still unable to open his eyes. He thrusts in at a slightly changed angle, feels Dean's shocky reaction, and blindly reaches for it again and again.

'It's perfect,' Sam says warmly. 'Hey, look at me. Cas, you're doing it perfect. Look at _him_ -' and Castiel opens his eyes. 

Sam has been working while Castiel has been thoughtlessly rutting. Dean's back is a bloody mess of … of pentacles and keys of Solomon, Enochian and hieroglyphs and ancient Chinese ideograms and cuneiform and runes - protective spellwork cut in shallow red right into Dean's body. Dean writhes between them, ass back against the cradle of Castiel's hips and nosing into Sam's body, shuddering as Sam applies the knife once more to finish a sigil of warding in the shadow of a hollowed shoulderblade. 

'He needs us,' Sam says, and his eyes are blurring bright with emotion, black with heat. 'We need him - _everyone_ needs him, but no-one's been taking care of him and he's hurting and Cas … Cas, we're all fucking up. You were right. But this. We can do this. Take care of each other.'

'No,' says Castiel, because he's awash in hormones and biological imperatives and he wants this so much that it's a failure in itself, he is a failure of an angel, he is good for _nothing_ he was meant to be. 'Not me, I can't -'

'You can,' Sam says. 'You are.' He tosses the knife aside and grabs for Castiel's hand, drags it through blood - and Dean flinches and roils and moans between them every time they touch a cut - to Dean's shoulder, Castiel's mark there still burnt in. 'You always have, Sam says, and Castiel jerks, his grace flickering to life like a banked fire, and comes, and comes, and comes. Sam grabs him by the hair and kisses him again, burning, and bites down on Castiel's lip, and they shake through it together, go limp together with Dean between them, shuddering, untouched.

Castiel loses time again then, like in the dusty room with the dangling stars, a sort of peace at last.

***

Castiel sees Sam naked for the first time when he floats back to himself, the hiss and squeak of the motel shower rousing him. It can't have been more than five minutes, but Castiel feels as if he's lost years somewhere, or shed them somehow. 'C'mon,' Sam says quietly. 'Let's get him cleaned up.'

Dean's a brown-smeared, exhausted mess. His mouth is puffy, his back reads like a grimoire and his front is abstract art. Between the two of them Sam and Castiel get him upright and on his feet, and he regains his faculties enough to walk, but not enough to shake them off. Which is fortunate, because Castiel is holding tight to Dean almost as much as Dean is holding on to him. Sam maneouvres them both into the steamed-up bathroom quietly and gently, and pushes them into the shower. There is a ringing, bell-like quiet in the room that has nothing to do with sound. 

Dean winces and says nothing when they wash him clean. Sam's cuts are thin and precise, and they must sting and itch but they have already started to close, and if Castiel helps them along perhaps a little more than is strictly natural with every sweep of the washcloth, as gentle as he can be, well, he will not apologise for that. Dean's expression keeps clouding and clearing as he drifts in and out of himself. 

'Shh,' Sam says to Dean at one point when his forehead creases and he draws a breath deep enough to speak with, grips the edge of the shower door like he might leave. 'Just let us,' as if they are both, Sam and Castiel, contributing to this caretaking equally. Castiel can barely hold himself upright, although he does try to keep the washcloth moving usefully. 

Eventually Dean relaxes against the back wall of the shower in the steam and Sam pushes Castiel into his hold and scrubs shampoo into his scalp. 

Dean kisses him, while Sam washes them, and Castiel slides his fingers over Dean's wounds and wills him to _heal_ \- inside and out, as if these marks really are spellwork, and might take Dean's burdens with them when they finally vanish. Dean makes soft noises against Castiel's mouth and reaches out and up to grab Sam's arm. 

The way they look at each other now makes Castiel's heart soar.

Sam shuts the water off when they're all soft and warmed through, and he towels them off - first Dean, and the off-white, too-often-washed motel towel pinkens slightly, and then Castiel with a new towel until Castiel takes it off of him and performs that task himself. 

He's waking up, in more ways than one. He doesn't know if this has done any good. Dean's eyes are glazed, hooded and hazy now, and he will sleep, at least, tonight - but Castiel has no idea how he will be in the morning, if this has settled anything for him. 

The motel room is a drift of hastily-discarded clothes. Dean picks his way across them and lowers himself to the mattress of the unused bed gingerly. Sam folds around his brother as naturally as breathing, and Castiel - Castiel picks up his underwear and trousers from the mess and is trying to unravel the complicated series of actions required to balance on one foot and get the other through a leg-hole without falling over before he realises that Dean is looking at him over Sam's shoulder.

'Stay,' Dean says in a broken-glass voice. 

'I can't,' Castiel replies. And he means to qualify that with a reason, with an explanation, but the words dry up in his throat. Dean will see it as Castiel seeking to be away from him. If tonight - if these things they've done haven't broken Dean's trust in Castiel yet, then Castiel walking away from him in the aftermath of them surely will. And the whole point of this exercise was to build up Dean's reasons to … to stay, in this fight, in his body. To stay with _them,_ and maybe Castiel told himself it was just Sam who needed Dean to stay at the beginning, but he can't lie to himself any more. He wants Dean to fight through this, for more than just the sake of the world. And it makes him a bad angel, but … 

Dean just stares him down.

Castiel drops the clothes, takes a step towards the bed. 'I shouldn't,' he tries again, weakly.

'You should,' Sam says, rumbling with his face half-buried in Dean's shoulder. 'We want you to.'

'You'd - you'll let me?' Castiel asks. There is a space on Dean's other side, just big enough for him - there is a smooth uncut space over the bone of Dean's hip where his hand would fit, and his fingers might brush Sam's in the night. 

'Yes,' says Dean with implacable certainty. _'Yes.'_


End file.
